Page 68 of Offside Attraction

Therinkiscold,but it feels like nothing compared to the chill still hanging between Hayes and me after the fight. Coach Rivera’s lecture rings in my ears—something about leadership, responsibility, and setting a better example. But all I can think about is Hayes, standing a few feet away on the ice, his expression as unreadable as ever.

The scrimmage is supposed to help us “cool off.” That’s what Coach said, anyway. Get the tension out, focus on the game. As if that’s possible when Hayes is still smirking like he got away with something. The whistle blows, and we’re off.

It doesn’t take long for the competitive edge to kick in. I push off hard, feeling the burn in my legs as I take off across the ice. The familiar sound of skates cutting into the frozen surface fills the rink, but it’s not just any game today. This is personal. Every time Hayes’ team gets the puck, I’m there—chasing, blocking,knocking them down if I have to. My lungs burn, and my muscles are tight, but the adrenaline keeps me going.

Hayes is on the move, fast as always, weaving through the defense like it’s nothing. I see him coming from the corner of my eye, and my body reacts before my brain can catch up. I skate harder, angling toward him just as the puck lands on his stick. He doesn’t hesitate, driving forward with that stupid confidence of his. For a split second, our eyes meet—just long enough for me to know he’s going to try something slick.

Not today.

I cut across the ice and slam into him, shoulder first, my body making solid contact with his. It’s a hard hit, sending both of us off balance, but I don’t care. I’ve been waiting for this all scrimmage. Hayes stumbles, but he doesn’t fall. He’s too steady for that, and it only pisses me off more.

“Watch yourself, Miller,” Hayes mutters under his breath, his voice low and mocking as he recovers.

I glare at him, teeth clenched, but before I can respond, the puck skids loose, and Zach is there to snatch it up. I back off, refocusing on the play as Zach charges down the ice toward the goal. For a second, I forget about Hayes and just move, my body reacting to the rhythm of the game.

Zach makes the pass, and the puck lands on my stick like it’s magnetized. I take off, my heart pounding, breath fogging the air as I speed down the ice. I can feel the defense closing in, but my eyes are locked on the goal, the goalie’s stance, the angle I need to hit.

But then—just as I’m about to shoot—Hayes comes out of nowhere, his stick cutting across mine, sending the puck flying out of reach.

“Dammit!” I snap, turning sharply to follow the play. My frustration boils over as Hayes glides past me with that cocky smirk on his face.

“Gotta be quicker than that,” he says, loud enough for me to hear but quiet enough for the rest of the team to miss.

I bite back a retort, fuming as I skate after him. He grabs the puck and takes off toward the opposite side of the rink. My pulse races, and I push harder, desperate to catch him, to make him pay for getting the best of me again.

Hayes is fast, I’ll give him that, but I’m fueled by pure rage at this point. I close the distance, skating like the ice might crack beneath me at any moment. Just as he crosses center ice, I lunge forward, my stick aimed right at his.

I knock the puck loose, and Hayes stumbles. He catches himself, of course, but not before I snag the puck and spin away. The guys on my team shout encouragement, but all I hear is the blood rushing in my ears.

I’m so focused on making the shot, I don’t even realize Hayes is coming up behind me again until it’s too late. His shoulder connects with mine, hard, sending me sprawling across the ice. I hit the boards with a thud, my breath knocked out of me for a second.

“Too slow,” he says, skating past, his voice dripping with that same infuriating smugness.

I lie there for a moment, my chest heaving, staring up at the rink’s ceiling. My body aches, but that’s not what hurts the most. It’s him. Always him. Always finding a way to get under my skin, to remind me that no matter how hard I try, he’s still one step ahead.

I grit my teeth and push myself up, shaking off the sting in my side. The game’s still going, but I can’t focus. My eyes lock onto Hayes as he circles back toward the play, effortlessly controlling the puck as if it’s an extension of himself.

I skate back into position, forcing myself to stay calm, to focus on the game, but the anger’s still there, boiling beneath the surface. Every time I see him with the puck, every time I hearhis stupid comments, it just makes me want to knock him down again. Harder this time. Make him feel what I’m feeling.

The scrimmage drags on, and by the time Coach blows the final whistle, I’m drenched in sweat and shaking with frustration. Hayes skates off with that same unbothered look on his face, like he’s won something.

“Alright, boys,” Coach Rivera shouts, gathering us at the center of the ice. “Decent hustle, but we need to clean up those turnovers. And keep your heads in the game. No more fighting. We play as a team or not at all.”

He doesn’t look directly at me or Hayes, but I know the message is for us.

“As y’all know our home game is less than two weeks from now. Which means double practice and working harder than we normally do. St. Laurence has a tough team but nothing compared to us. So I expect everyone to do better and no feud amongst us. Always remember, the goal is to win together as a team and work together because in the end, we belong to one team. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Coach!” We chorus.

“Good. Go home, freshen up, and I’ll see all of you tomorrow.”

Hayes glances at me out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t say anything this time. He doesn’t need to. His silence is enough to tell me that, despite the truce we called at Coach’s office, nothing’s really changed.

As we skate off the ice, Zach gives me a slap on the back, grinning. “You played hard, Miller. Just gotta land those hits a little better next time.”

I nod, but my mind’s already somewhere else. Somewhere colder than the ice beneath my feet.

“Nicetatsyou’vegot,”Lance says as I step out of the shower half-dressed, the door closing behind me.